


a place where they could slip right in

by eudaimon



Category: Ripper Street
Genre: Drag, M/M, cross-dressing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-12
Updated: 2013-02-12
Packaged: 2017-11-29 02:43:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/681817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eudaimon/pseuds/eudaimon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Rose stuffs the front of his dress with rags, squeezes and presses him into shape, and all that Hobbs can see is his sister, sixteen year old Kate, staring back at him.</i>  Reid needs someone to go undercover in a Molly house and he has no shorter constables to send.  Hobbs steps into the breech, but there is no predicting Jackson's reaction to anything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a place where they could slip right in

**Author's Note:**

> God, I love these two. This pairing _sings_ to me. For reference, I know that the term 'molly house' would have anachronistic by the time period Ripper Street is set during but, since that's the term they used in canon, that's what I'm sticking with.

_the way you slam your body into mind reminds me I'm alive._

*

“Close your eyes, precious.”

His face already hurts from blushing so hard. Miss Rose is very close to him indeed, so close that he can feel her breath against his skin as she leans in. Dutifully, he closes his eyes and, a moment later, he feels the bristles of the brush against the skin of his eyelids. He’s stripped to the waist, intensely aware of the breeze against the bare skin of his back and of the presence of the ladies, experienced though they both may be with men in all states of undress. He catches himself thinking it and blushes. The air smells faintly of something delicious, perfume and potions, stuff that his mum couldn’t afford in a century of Sundays.

“Honestly, boy,” says Miss Susan, sounding utterly exasperated. “Had Reid no _shorter_ Constables to send?”

Hobbs has no idea how the Inspector talked him into this.

“I…I don’t rightly know, Miss,” he says. When he goes to shake his head, Miss Rose has hold of his chin, holding him straight, her fingers surprisingly vice-like for a hand so small. “Only, Inspector Reid said I’m to go and see what I can find out in that M-Molly house. Miss. And so he sent me to you for the...particulars.”

“Then we must make the illusion compelling, must we not?” says Miss Susan. “Bedeck you in our finest and make you into the prettiest poppet that we can muster. What say you, Rose?”

“I think e’ll do,” says Miss Rose, close enough to kiss. “Pretty as a girl, ain’t he?”  
Christ in Heaven. What is he ever going to tell his mum about this? His mum’s so proud of his uniform, of his position with H Division and he always tells her every time he does something that Inspector Reid finds worthy of praise. But this? He wouldn't know _where_ to start explaining _this_.

So maybe he just won’t mention _this_ at all?

It seems to take an age of poking and prodding. He is preened and pinched. They lace him into corsetry and skirts; Rose pins the wig into place and curls spill over his shoulders. Hobbs tries very, very hard not to think about the fact that he’s standing there in girl’s drawers. The whole thing seems easier if he doesn't think about it at all.

“Oh, shoot and buggery!” says Rose, wheeling away from him. “Forget the tits!”

Blushing, Hobbs finds that he can’t look away from his reflection in the glass. It’s hard to pick himself out, under the paint.

But there hs is. He blinks, brushes a curl back from his face. Rose stuffs the front of his dress with rags, squeezes and presses him into shape, and all that Hobbs can see is his sister, sixteen year old Kate, staring back at him.

“Turn,” says Miss Susan, somewhat cold, gesturing at him. Hobbs’ shuffles in a circle, feeling the skirt and petticoat flare around his legs in unexpected ways. Her eyebrow arches. “Yes,” she says. “I suppose you’ll do.”

She almost smiles.

*

His heart is fluttering in his throat like a bird. Rose has looped her arm through his and they walk side by side. The idea of the Molly house doesn’t bother him, exactly; in the end, it’s just men wanting men, in different clothes, isn’t it? No = what Hobbs is worried about is these three men right here, the men that he respects. The three of them are sitting there like it’s any other day. Drinking tea. Sergeant Drake is reading the newspaper. Jackson is smoking. Inspector Reid stares absently into space. 

And here they are together - these men he might do anything to please.  
Because he loves his work and he loves his station and sometimes it feels that every chance he’s ever had comes from Inspector Edmund Reid.

Rose clears her throat. Hobbs fights the urge to turn on his heel and run.

“Rose,” says Drake, immediately rising when they walk into the room, and Hobbs can’t miss the way his eyes flicker, the way they take him in. Reid does the same, but slower. His eyes find Hobbs’ face quicker. “Miss." Drake bobs his head in what Hobbs realises is _his_ direction. "Is the lad nearly ready, then?”

Still sprawled in his chair, knees spread wide, Jackson is grinning. His eyes slide down the length of Hobbs’ body slowly.

“I should say he is, Drake,” he drawls. “I should definitely say he is.”  
Hobbs can feel his face burning.

Drake catches on a moment later and Hobbs watches him fluster. Suddenly, he’s only got eyes for the ceiling. Reid is fascinated; he walks in a slow circle around Hobbs, taking in the details. Hobbs does his best to hold his spine straight, to not tremble. He keeps his eyes on Jackson, Jackson who hasn’t looked anywhere but straight at Hobbs since he walked into the room. Reid goes out to speak to Susan. Drake idles in the hallway with Rose. Jackson gets up and crosses the space between them. The backs of his fingers ghost along the boning against Hobbs’ side. Jackson leans in until Hobbs can feel his breath against his cheek.

“Well, darlin’,” he says. “Ain’t you somethin’?”

“Do you like it, then?” he asks, suddenly nervous and hating that a bit, hating that his belly’s suddenly fluttering when faced with this man who’s seen him, who knows him, who’s _had_ him in almost every single way possible.

But then there’s this.

Jackson nods. He doesn’t lean in – they don’t kiss – but the tip of one finger does touch Hobbs’ face, his powdered cheek, the curve of his bottom lip.

“I do,” he says. That’s all. But there’s weight in how he looks. Hobbs fancies that there are words left unsaid - _be careful_ and _be safe_ , masked and muddied by all of that naked want.

*

He’s there to gather information, and he does what he can. He learns a scattering of things that he thinks might be useful, takes discreet, careful notes. Dimly, he’s always known that this sort of place existed, in the same way that brothels and chop-houses exist: they’re there to fill a hole. Still, he wasn’t expecting _quite_ what he found. Some of these…ladies are more convincing than others. Hobbs feels oddly proud of himself when he remembers the look in Sergeant Drake’s eyes. Which was altogether different from the look in Captain Jackson’s. But somehow meant the same thing.

There’s one in particular who keeps looking him in the eye. At first, Hobbs studiously ignores him; the last thing he needs is for this to feel anymore strange than it does already. But then he looks the other man in the eyes and he realises that _this_ part, that look, isn’t strange at all. He’s been sharing that look with men for years now. He knows exactly what that look means. And he shouldn’t give it to it, he really shouldn’t, but he’s drunk a glass of wine that’s gone straight to his head and, even in this get-up, maybe he likes that he’s caught someone’s eye?

It makes him feel powerful, for a second; like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

It’s nearly time for him to make his exit. The Inspector gave him a time to make sure that he’s gone by. There’s someone at the piano, still singing, and his mouth tastes pleasantly of wine far more decent than anything he’d ever find on his own. It isn’t until he stands that he realises that his head is spinning a little, but only in a way that makes everything seem possible.

*

The hallway is cool, and dark. With one hand against the wall, Hobbs closes his eyes. There’s nothing about his shape that feels familiar; the hair and the boning, the weight of the skirts and the scent that Rose dabbed onto his skin, onto his collarbones and behind his ears. He rests his forehead against the tiles.

“Not going, surely?”

Hobbs knows without turning who’s standing behind him.

“I’d better be,” says Hobbs, glancing back over his shoulder. “I’m expected.”

He’s handsome, this other bloke, in a way that’s pretty familiar – bit of a toff, slicked back hair, clean shaven. Expensive suit. Hobbs has seen his sort before, more than once; they end up in Whitechapel every day and they’re almost always after the same thing. More than once, Hobbs has been that sort of thing, when it took his fancy or somebody caught his eye. Hobbs glances towards the door, but then he’s moving closer without really thinking about it. He could probably blame it on the wine, or the fact that he’s felt strange in his skin since he first looked himself in the eye in the mirror.

But it’s probably just that he _wants_ it. Why put a finer point on it than that?

In the end, he hitches up the bloody skirt so it’s easier to get down onto his knees. The alcove that they find themselves in has a curtain that slips closed; privately, Hobbs suspects that it was constructed for exactly this purpose. It’s all a bit of a fumble; he isn’t interested in teasing or art. The fabric of the man’s trousers are rough against Hobbs’ palms as he kneels there and waits, watches, as buttons are opened. The man takes out his cock and Hobbs finds himself staring, finds himself desperately craving. It doesn’t take much to lean forward, curling his fingers around the length of it, ducking his head to trail his tongue against hot skin.

This part has always been easy.

There’s not a lot of art in it, not the way he does it. He doesn’t feel like lingering. In him, sometimes, there’s a hunger that he can’t put his finger on, that he has no real name for. Not something that he could ever talk about, not out in the open. Jackson helps it a little – the things that they do, the moments that they share – but it’s not everything. There’s also this. Those moments when all he wants is a cock in his mouth, fingers in his hair, anonymity and use. His uniform makes him so visible and, sometimes, God help him, he just wants to be lost.

The man thrusts into his mouth until he comes; Hobbs swallows every drop as neatly as he can. They don’t kiss. Hobbs never knows his name.

*

He can’t go back to Lehman street dressed like this; he definitely can’t go back to his dear old mum (his sisters, they’d never let him live it down). There’s really only one place that he can find himself, isn’t there? He knocks and then leans his forehead against the door-frame. He feels punch-drunk and hollow, not bad but somehow _light_. It feels almost like he could float away entirely. He imagines rising up over the city, up and up, higher and higher, until he was gone completely. No more substantial than a puff of smoke.

Hobbs is almost pathetically grateful when it’s Jackson that opens the door. There’s this moment when neither of them say anything, eyes locked. Hobbs wavers slightly, and Jackson reaches out, steadying him with a hand against his arm.

“There you are, Hobbs,” he says, smiling, but his voice is gentle. “I’ve been waitin’ for you.”

He all but swoons inward, his arm looping around Jackson’s neck. They kiss on the doorstep, out in the open like that because, with his back to the street like that, Hobbs could be any woman at all, he supposes. It’s a lingering, wet sort of kiss. Hobbs _loves_ kissing and he feels his cock immediately answer. Jackson’s hand is on him, cupping the line of his cock through skirts, squeezing, and Hobbs groans into his mouth, pressing forward against his palm.

“Jesus,” he mumbles.

Jackson’s laughing when they break off. There’s a flush in his cheeks that Hobbs can feel echoed in his own.

“Are you _drunk_ , Hobbs?" says Jackson, ducking his head to get a good look in Hobbs’ eyes, and Hobs is virtually sure that the answer to that is ‘no’, but then there’s the fact that his head is swimming and light, the fact that it feels like there are sparks dancing in the corners of his eyes. So maybe he _is_ drunk? Or something’s off with the world.

“I just want to go to bed,” he says. “Right now.”

It’s late, so the sitting room is quiet – girls have already been taken for the night. They don’t go to one of the guest bedrooms, though; it’s straight to Jackson’s suite, his cluttered and familiar rooms, the overloaded surfaces and the rumpled sheets. The minute the door’s shut, Hobbs is pulling out pins and discarding them, tugging the wig free and dropping it onto the boards. He scrubs his fingers through his hair, shorter hair. He feels more like himself. The dress is more complicated – he’s never done much undressing of girls – but Jackson is right behind him, the flats of his hands sliding over Hobbs’ skinny hips.

“You’re beautiful, Hobbs,” murmurs Jackson, his lips against Hobbs’ skin, and ‘beautiful’ is not a word that he’s ever applied to himself. Still, the way that Jackson’s touching him gives him context, makes that word into something that he can possibly understand, along with the touch of Jackson’s lips against the side of his neck, behind his ear. He groans softly.

“Just fuck me,” he says, only quietly, but that drunk, light-headed feeling is back. All the world feels like its spinning and there they are, at its centre. Still, but only through sheer force of will. 

How easily the dress comes off under Jackson’s hands might make Hobbs jealous, if he was the jealous sort. But he’s had so little that’s been his, just his, in his life, so he’ll take what little bits he can and stitch them together into something marvelous as he goes. He shrugs out of the heavy gown, still aware of the bite of the corset around his waist, the whisper of silk petticoat against his ankles. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror – rumpled fabric and flushed skin. He looks like himself, only with ragged edges. He starts to pull at lacing, but Jackson wraps his hands around him, stops his fingers and pulls him in for another kiss.

“Like that,” he says. “I think. Just this once, Hobbs? Might as well feel the full benefit.”

And Hobbs blushes but he also doesn’t care, not when Jackson is already sinking down onto his knees. Drawers around his ankles, Hobbs shivers when silk brushes against his cock as Jackson gathers the petticoat up in his fist, presses it against Hobbs' belly so that he can bend his head, brush his lips right against Hobbs’ balls and, oh _God_ , nobody has ever taken so much time over him and nobody has ever made him want it quite so much.

It’s all that he can do to stay standing when Jackson’s mouth slides down over his cock proper. His head falls back and his hand, fingertips shaking, pushes into Jackson’s hair, holding on as he rocks his hips, thrusts deeper into his mouth. The marvel is that Jackson doesn’t choke; he takes everything that he’s given. Not for the first time, Hobbs wonders where Captain Homer Jackson could possibly have learned all the things he so obviously knows.

He finds himself staring at their reflection in the mirror – the patterned silk of the corset against his skin, the drape of the petticoat, the jut of his cock and the bob of Jackson’s head. He’s come in Jackson’s mouth, before, come on in his hand and on his chest and, once, memorably, across his face. Every time blurs into all the other times until all there is, all there can be, is the movement of his hips and the wet slide of Jackson’s mouth and tongue.

He nearly comes. He’s so, so close.

But then Jackson’s stopping, leaning back and sitting on his heels, leaving Hobbs standing there, unable to think clearly past the throbbing in his head and his chest and between his legs. Jackson stands up and, before Hobbs really knows what’s happening, he’s spin, bent, the skirt flipped up over his waist. He can feel the air across his bare arse and the damp skin of his cock. The bed is high enough to bite into his belly, but he catches his weight on the heels of his hands and waits.

Jackson’s mouth back on him, tongue trailing from his tailbone and down, is enough to make his hips jerk, to make him moan, and, usually, he tries to swallow those sounds back, but tonight is different. Everything feels ripped wide open. Hobbs squirms but finds himself pinned, helpless, at the press of Jackson’s mouth against him. He imagines what he must look like – so much bare skin. When they first started this, he’d blushed a lot, hidden under bed-sheets, covered his face with his hands and shielded his mouth when he bent to spit.

A lot’s changed since then, though, hasn’t it? Everything’s changed.

Jackson’s slick fingers come as something of a relief, pushing inside, working him open, but it isn’t until he finally feels the blunt tip of Jackson’s cock rubbing against him that he finally feels on the edge of what he really wants. He’s got more about him than begging, he really has, but it’s a close-run thing. He bites his lip hard as Jackson pushes his slick cock into him. He moans over every single inch.

“That good, darlin’?” asks Jackson, and Hobbs has never quite got his head around how bloody noisy Jackson can be, which doesn’t mean that he doesn’t also somehow _love_ it, all at once. He doesn’t say anything, though, just bites his lip and nods his head, reaches back with one hand and grips Jackson’s thigh as they rock together, the corset biting into his sides. Jackson isn’t gentle and, Jesus, Hobbs is grateful for it.

Gentle is the last thing he wants.

He makes a dreadful mess when he comes, but there’s the petticoat to mop up with. He sprawls face down on the bed and listens to Jackson move around the room, listens to him shed clothes and uncork bottles. He lies more or less still while Jackson peels him out of the same clothes that he’s wearing, the corset. Jackson wipes his face with a damp cloth and then presses a kiss right between his eyes.

“How’re you doin’, Hobbs?” he asks. Hobbs finds a smile.  
“I’m bloody knackered, Captain Jackson,” he mumbles. He closes his eyes as Jackson gets off the bed again. Exhausted, he drifts as Jackson blows out all the lights, one by one.


End file.
